


War of Hearts

by Miss_Peletier



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, season 5
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-11
Updated: 2018-04-11
Packaged: 2019-04-21 14:06:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14286555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miss_Peletier/pseuds/Miss_Peletier
Summary: Abby didn't realize how unwilling she was to let Marcus go until she was faced with the possibility of losing him.





	War of Hearts

Her thoughts have jagged, sharp edges, and some days Abby can feel them cutting into her.

Some days they slice tears from her eyes, turn her limbs to lead, strap her to her bed and drain her of every last drop of energy. On others they plunge deeper still, leaving her unable to feel anything but a vast, unfillable emptiness that radiates from her heart which is – despite her wishes – betraying her with every beat. Today is one of the latter.

She feigns waking so she can at least pretend she’s accomplished something as simple as sleep, though of course the night held nothing but demons when she closed her eyes. Her bed is small but too big for one, and more than once, she has found herself reaching for a man she knows isn’t there. More than once, she has felt the warmth of him from nothing more than his ghost, tried to find words that can express the contrasting feelings at war within her. More than once, whatever fickle syllables she has strung together shrivel on her tongue. How is it possible, she wonders, to be so angry and so in love at the same time? Granted, it isn’t the first time she’s felt this disappointment. God only knew she had been angry with Jake, too, cursed his name in the shadowy emptiness of their apartment and instantly regretted it. But this is the first time her whole body aches with a rage so cold it freezes instead of burns.

_You wanted to die, with everyone else._

_He took that from you._

And four months into the long limbo that will sink into a hellacious routine, Abby hasn’t been able to extract the poison from that thought.

She pulls on clothing that still somehow clings to the scent of him – her old henley, lace at the shoulders pulled and frayed at the edges, reminding her of the time when he pulled her into his arms and kissed her like she was the only thing keeping his heart beating. There are echoes of their relationship in every unraveling stitch. Part of her whispers she could find other clothes if she wanted them, that she could place this henley in a drawer and leave it to collect dust. That there is something else that compels her to pull on the shirt that is no more than a shade of what it once was. Abby pushes the uncomfortable thought away, and steps out into the organized chaos of the bunker.

Jackson is waiting for her as usual, giving her a small, tired smile as she closes her door and they begin walking.

“Did you get some rest?” he asks, making small talk.

“Yes,” she lies. Jackson knows she hasn’t – he’s one of two people in this bunker who can see her worry and agony painted into the lines on her face, who hear not only her words, but the often-conflicting truth behind them.

“Is anything bothering you?” Jackson asks after a long pause, staring at her with wide eyes as they descend the steps that separate their living spaces from the rest of the bunker’s beds. She knows this is a code to determine whether her brain is giving her any trouble after treatment, whether she still gets headaches and hallucinations and all the side effects that imprisoned her when she broke free of ALIE’s control.

“I’m not having any symptoms,” she says flatly. The truth, this time.

“That isn’t what I meant,” he responds, his voice tight. It is clear from his tone that those five words took days of courage to summon – that Jackson is unused to openly disagreeing with her, to applying a magnifying glass to the cracks that have started to form in her façade. Her chest tightens: clearly, she needs to be better at pretending she’s fully put herself back together, instead of still looking for the pieces of the woman she once was.

“I’m fine,” she says, infusing the words with a little too much emotion. “Don’t worry about me,” she adds, looking over at him. He has a sort of analytical, doctoral gaze, the kind of stare she herself employs when looking over a patient. Is that what she is to him, now?

Jackson stops, his lips pursed. “I _am_ worried about you,” he says, stepping to the side, allowing others to pass him by. “You’re not fine, Abby. I can see it, and so can-“

He pauses as if the next word has decided to slip back down his throat. Fueled equally by curiosity and annoyance, she asks the question.

“Keep going, Jackson. Who else can see it?”

He looks down at the floor, then to the wall, swallowing hard. She has the feeling she could answer her own question, but she needs to hear it from his lips. She needs to be sure.

“Kane,” he says.

“Kane,” Abby repeats. So they talk about her, then. It shouldn’t be a surprise, in hindsight: she’s seen him leaving Medical when she arrives, with the same dull agony she knows is reflected in her own eyes – like he wants to reach out, to touch her, but he’s afraid the connection might burn. “He needs to stay out of things that don’t concern him.”

“The head doctor’s health is a matter of importance to the Chancellor,” Jackson retorts. 

“Then tell him I’m fine next time he asks you,” Abby says.

“Tell him yourself,” Jackson snaps, and her jaw drops. Never, in their nearly decade-long partnership, has Jackson so harshly – at least of his own will – talked back to her. There are people she expects this kind of attitude from. Her assistant, and closest friend, is not one of them.

“You need to stop avoiding him,” Jackson adds, as though more words can smooth the rift he has revealed. “He’s really worried about you, Abby. At least…at least talk to him. Say _something_.”

Lost for words, Abby fumbles for a response. On some level, she wondered if Marcus was feeling the same way as her – if he awoke in quarters that felt so vacant it was almost impossible to breathe, if he ever imagined her reassuring him on nights when resources and general morale were low. For a moment, her affection wins out over her anger, and she nearly gives in; nearly abandons Jackson in the middle of the hallway and sprints to his room, where she knows she can wrap her arms around the man who is more home to her than the surface of the Earth. That she could breathe his familiar scent, rest her head on his shoulder, and expunge all the tears and grief and heartbreak that have built a wall between them. In an instant, it could all end.

But before she can make a choice either way – to run to him or away from him – Indra materializes at her side, exuding all the authority and determination that accompanies the post of Octavia’s most trusted advisor.

“The Commander requires one of you to be present at the arena,” she says. Her voice is a wire pulled taut, as though the slightest increase in pressure will cause it to break. Something is very wrong, Abby thinks, if Indra is affected this way.

“I can do it,” Jackson volunteers. Abby knows he understands her distaste for Octavia’s justice system – a fighting ring that pits those who have committed infractions against her laws against each other in a battle to the death – and her annoyance with him vanishes. He may be giving Marcus information about her behind her back, but Jackson is a good man who genuinely cares for her. This, she realizes, is just another burden he will bear for her while she tries to find out who she has become in the ashes of Priamfiya.

But this is a burden Abby decides she needs to shoulder. Her duty to uncover the motivation for Indra’s mood wins out over her hatred for these battles, and she volunteers.

“No,” Abby says. “I’ll go. You go to Medical and start preparing for us to treat whoever survives.”

She refuses to say ‘the winner,’ because she refuses to see this as anything more than the bloodthirsty, shameful tradition that it is. Marcus had tried to convince Octavia not to go through with it. That if those in the bunker were all that remained of the human race, it was foolish to organize ritual combat with life-or-death stakes. But she saw grounder justice as the only form of law fit for _Wonkru_ and ignored his protests.

Jackson gives Abby a long, measured look, as if he can’t quite figure out how the woman he argued with only moments ago and the woman who stands before him now are the same person. But with Indra watching, waiting for their response, time is of the essence and there is no breath to be wasted.

“Okay,” Jackson says, reaching forward to give Abby’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “I’ll be ready.”

Abby nods, watches him as he disappears into the stream of people heading in a myriad of different directions. Then, once she loses sight of him completely, Indra speaks.

“We must go,” she says, beginning to walk.

Abby follows her, keeping pace with her strides. The central gathering area, typically filled with grounders attempting to barter for clothing or books or weaponry behind stalls made of wood and ragged, shredded cloth, is eerily empty. Most grounders didn’t have any problem with trial by combat, and would undoubtedly take the day off from their small businesses to watch the show. But seeing everything packed up and abandoned only adds to her unease, and every footstep she takes seems louder in the silence.

“I’m surprised you volunteered,” Indra says quietly, and Abby frowns.

“Is something wrong?” she asks.

“He won’t expect you to be there."

Abby feels her stomach beginning to sink. A rush of sickening nausea creeps through her body, and she swallows hard.

“Indra,” she says slowly, as though even her tongue is weighed down by dread. “Who’s fighting today?”

The woman looks at her with a melancholy, mournful stare.

“Kane,” she says.

_No._

It’s a stupid, almost meaningless syllable when compared to the surge of emotion that rips through her upon hearing his name; the anger, dread, guilt, and regret that leave her immobilized. This is all of Abby’s nightmares crawling into her waking hours, wrapping their tendrils around not only darkness, but light. After spending so much time lost in what she perceived as his betrayal, she had finally started to find her way out of the maze only to find that solving the puzzle might mean losing him for good.

_No. No. No._

After a few unsuccessful attempts at speech, Abby finally manages to utter a few words.

“What did he do?”

“He has been accused of conspiring against Octavia’s leadership,” Indra says.

“Is it true?” Abby asks. Marcus had certainly never advocated for certain aspects of Octavia’s regime, but she doubted he had spearheaded a mission to remove her from power. And, given that _Skaikru_ was clearly the least popular of the clans that comprised _Wonkru_ , it was almost equally likely someone could have accused him of wrongdoing without sufficient evidence to back up their claim.

“Octavia believes it is,” Indra responds. The set of her jaw and the tight line of her lips betray her conviction otherwise, and Abby finds herself wondering if Indra attempted to argue for his innocence. Something in her tone – an edge at the end of her sentence – makes her inclined to believe Indra is as upset by this turn of events as she is. Should anything happen to Marcus today, Indra will lose a good friend. And Abby…

Can’t bear to think about what might be lost to her.

“Is there any way…” Abby starts, the churning in her stomach gnawing away the rest of her words. She takes a deep breath, wipes her shaking, sweaty palms on her pants, and tries again. “Is there a way I can see him?”

Indra seems to pretend to not hear her, staring straight ahead. They are close enough to the arena to hear the chants, the excited yells of a people whose government was founded on the principle of “blood must have blood.” 

“Indra,” Abby tries again, taking the woman’s arm and gently turning her so they are face-to-face. Only then does she understand why Indra wasn’t responding to her request: her lower lip trembles slightly, and although she blinks to push them back, her eyes shine with the ghost of unshed tears. The sight of a hardened warrior so affected by Marcus’ looming fate nearly undoes Abby completely, and it’s all she can do to stay standing and not to indulge the ever-growing part of her that wants only to scream, cry, and shove her way through the assembled grounder crowd until she can find her way into Marcus’ arms.

“Please,” Abby whispers, fully aware she’s begging, past the point of caring. “I need to talk to him. I can’t-“

Then her voice does the thing she’d been hoping it wouldn’t do: it breaks. Indra looks away, her shoulders rising and falling as she takes a deep, slow breath. When she meets Abby’s eyes, her gaze is defeated, empty.

“The rules of the _gonplei_ are clear,” she says, her voice devoid of all inflection. “Octavia does not allow visitors before battle.”

_No. No. No._

Whatever faint shreds of hope that still remained inside her are beginning to fray, dissolving and unraveling at the denial of that one simple but impossibly important request. The thought of Marcus dying on the arena floor…the thought of never again being able to hold him close, to run her fingers through his hair and the sandpaper scratchiness of his beard, to look into his soil-brown eyes and know, beyond any doubt, that his heart still rested in her hands despite her having taken back her own…is too devastating for her to comprehend.

She wants, _needs_ to tell him. Marcus Kane cannot go to battle without knowing.

They stand outside the arena now, separated from the chaos by two airbrushed metal door bearing the Wonkru symbol painted in yellowish, dripping white. The stench of sweat and blood burns as she breathes it in.

“I am sorry,” Indra says, sounding genuinely regretful.

Abby can’t bring herself to look at her.

“So am I.” 

***

Nothing has changed since the last time she watched the _gonplei_ – the room, which had once been a kind of maintenance hangar – is still two levels of rusted steel that holds spectators back by a series of bloodstained metal bars, lit by a conglomeration of bulbs that always seem in danger of breathing their last breath during one of the fights. The viewing areas are well above the ground floor, and much to Abby’s dismay, there are no stairs to link the two together; she has no chance of saying even a single word to Marcus before the battle begins.

She follows Indra to the section reserved for those most important in Octavia’s government – her advisors, her allies, and the leaders of each clan – and swallows a scream when she sees the Skaikru chair occupied by none other than Thelonious Jaha. It hasn’t exactly been a secret that Thelonious had been serving as one of Octavia’s advisors since the bunker doors closed, just as it became apparent – at least to Abby – that Thelonious, above all, would always want the power and prestige that came with the Chancellorship. Seeing him in Marcus’ place makes her stomach lurch, and she stiffens when Indra motions for her to stand at the Skaikru leader’s side.

Abby maintains as large a distance between her and her former friend as possible, but that doesn’t keep him from attempting to bridge the gap.

“Abby,” he says, and his voice, combined with the cheering and yelling and screaming of the crowd, is enough to give her a headache. “I’m sorry. I know this doesn’t seem right, but he posed a threat to Octavia’s control. In the future, I will make sure -”

Something inside her shatters – a dam breaks, a glass smashes on concrete – and she turns toward Thelonious. How dare he stand where Marcus stood, and act as though he’s already Chancellor?

“Don’t pretend this isn’t what you wanted,” she spits, venom in her words, fire in her gaze. “If it had been up to you, he’d already be gone.”

That proves enough to shut him up, and he stares out at the empty ground floor without another word. _Good._

Moments later Octavia arrives, flanked by a few tall guards carrying axes and spears. She sits on a throne made from the grate of a car and various other piece of twisted metal, and her hands rest on horse skulls. When she removes her hood, Abby sees her forehead is smeared with red in what she can only guess is some kind of ritual.

It’s hard not to see this as a betrayal, at least on Octavia’s part. Nothing surprises Abby where Thelonious is concerned, but she knows Marcus sees Octavia almost as his own daughter and thought – until today – that Octavia reciprocated those feelings. Given Indra’s implication that she believed the leader had condemned Marcus without sufficient evidence, and Thelonious’ general smugness, Abby wishes she could walk over to the girl and scream at her until she realizes what she’s doing is wrong. But, Abby thought with chagrin, that would probably land _her_ on the arena floor.

Octavia blows a long horn made of bone, a contraption that makes a deep noise so loud it can likely be heard on the Earth’s surface, and the crowd goes silent. Though she knows her attention should be directed at their leader, Abby instead watches the ground for any sign of Marcus; for any chance to catch his eye, to let him know she’s here and she would be right there, by his side, if she could.

“Today we honor our ancestors through combat, and seek justice through blood,” she announces. “Through skill in battle, one of these men can earn their innocence. For the other… _yu gonplei ste odon._ ”

At those words, the room erupts in applause and cheers. Abby hears not a single clap, doesn’t feel the ground shaking beneath her feet. Where is he? What if he doesn’t look up? What if he doesn’t see her?

“Bring the _fotowons_ ,” Octavia announces. “Molaik _kom_ _Trishanakru_ , and Marcus Kane _kom Skaikru_.”

When she sees him, it is as if the world stops.

He is wearing a tarnished silver helmet that covers most of his head, and carrying a double-bladed axe not dissimilar to the ones held by Octavia’s guards in his right hand. His left holds a sort of makeshift shield, seemingly made from steel. Other than that, she is struck by how normal he looks; he’s wearing the same gray shirt he wears every other day, the same black boots that have seen him journey from Arkadia to Polis to the bunker. He is dressed to go to meetings and talk with his people and help maintain peace, not to fight for his life.

It is that thought that brings tears to her eyes as she stares down at him, silently willing Marcus to look up, to see her, to sense her presence. She yells his name a few times, as loudly as the lump in her throat will let her, and she lets herself pretend that when he turns his head suddenly, as if startled, he has recognized her voice. That he knows she’s here. That he knows, even though she hasn’t said it for months, how deeply she loves him. Just as she was with him in the rubble in Tondc, she is with him now. 

He doesn’t look up high enough to see her, to uncover her in the chaos and jeering of the swarming sea of spectators, before Octavia blows the horn again.

“Let the battle begin!”

She grips the railing with white knuckles, ignoring everything but the beating of her heart and the fact that, as of right now, his is, too. Marcus has survived a host of improbable scenarios, and this – despite the other facts that his competitor is larger and younger and likely more skilled in combat than him, and Marcus abhors violence – could very well be another challenge he is able to meet.

The competitors circle each other for a bit, and Abby thinks she sees Marcus’ lips moving. Hearing his words is naught but a pipe dream, at least in this commotion, but she thinks she knows what he’s doing: he’s trying to talk the other man down, trying to find a diplomatic way to settle their differences, trying to find a solution that allows them both to survive. Unfortunately, the Trishanakru man doesn’t subscribe to that form of justice.

He makes the first move, charging at Marcus with a sword, jumping and bringing the weapon down with deadly force. Marcus blocks the attack with his shield and spins, landing a kick to the man’s chest that sends him stumbling backwards. It strikes her that Marcus is still attempting non-lethal blows, despite the certainty that if his reaction time had been even a second slower he would have had a blade through his neck.

Abby can’t breathe. She would never wish for the death of another human being, but just this once, she wishes Marcus would be selfish. She wishes he would fight back instead of operating defensively. She wishes he would value his life as much as she values it, that he would care for himself as much as she cares for him.

Without him, she realizes the darkness of the bunker would consume her whole; that when her thoughts and doubts are sharpest and deadliest in the deep, quiet parts of the night, even her memories of Marcus Kane will bring her soul-crushing despair. Without him, whatever meager sense of home she has in this hopeless place would shrink down to nothingness, taking parts of her heart and tearing them from her chest. Though they are below ground he is her sun, and without him, whatever hope still remains blooming in her chest would die.

It had been true when he was in danger from Pike, and it still is.

_I can’t do this again._

The Trishanakru man recovers from the kick and charges again, swiping at Marcus’ side. He misses and Marcus steps back, leaning away from the sword. Several more attempts and misses prove the quickness of Marcus’ reflexes, and though Abby can’t allow herself to relax, she at least loosens her grip on the railing a fraction. Though he hasn’t been trained in fighting with swords and axes, Marcus was head of the guard. He knows hand-to-hand combat, and clearly, he knows how to anticipate his opponent’s maneuvers.

That is, until he doesn’t.

Marcus stops a blow with the handle of his axe and manages to force the sharp edge away from his body, until both weapons are locked between them. His opponent knocks them free, and before Marcus can raise his shield the man stabs him in his side, running him through with the blade. Then – when pain has caught him off-guard – his opponent uses Marcus’ own tactic against him and lands a forceful blow to his chest.

He goes airborne and lands halfway across the floor, flat on his back. His helmet skids away, and as he lies with his eyes closed, trying to catch his breath, the Trishanakru man kicks it – and his shield, which he was still holding, and a sickening _crack_ rings through the room – out of reach.

_No. No. No._

Nothing, she realizes, could have prepared her for this. To watch the man she loves die, simply because he was too kind and determined to promote unity that he wouldn’t fight for his own life. And nothing could have prepared her for the cold reality that she would not be allowed to hold him, to comfort him, to have her face – instead of the faces of jeering spectators and his own murderer - be the last thing he sees. That the closest she will come to holding Marcus Kane will be the phantom sensation of his arms around her and his lips on hers in flickering candlelight, tangible and accessible only in locked drawers in her memory.

When she looks down at the arena, she sees his opponent smiling. If there had been anything in her stomach to retch, it would have promptly met the grated steel floor.

“I love you,” she whispers, three syllables that fall somewhere between an appeal, a plea, and a prayer.

Only when she notices her vision is blurry does Abby understand she’s crying. She wants to scream, bang her fists against the railing, storm over to Octavia and yell at her until her voice is nothing more than a raspy, broken record: _how could you? He loved you_!

Instead she looks down, seeing her tears fall to the blood-soaked ground below, waiting and dreading and suffering and hoping.

To his credit, Marcus doesn’t look afraid. He appears almost peaceful, life leaking out of him from his side, the fingers of his hand bent at awkward angles. His opponent takes his time, sauntering toward him with the conviction of a man who wholeheartedly believes the battle is won and over.

When he stands above Marcus he places his foot on the axe, effectively negating any weapons or defenses Marcus had at his disposal. Then, after staring down at him for what feels like more than a century to Abby, he positions his sword above Marcus’ chest and…

Marcus throws all his strength into one last blow to the man’s leg, hitting him in the shin. The man howls, reeling backwards, and Marcus grabs the sword and wrenches it from his grip. They struggle for a few moments but Marcus, having found the reserve of his strength and abandoned negotiation, is every bit the skilled fighter his position as leader of the guard required him to be. And eventually, Marcus deals the fatal blow: an elbow to the gut, knocking the wind from his opponent, and a sword through his chest. The man falls to the ground, twitches for a few moments, and is still.

The crowd bellows and cheers. Applause winds its way throughout the bunker. Though _Skaikru_ wins no popularity contests, the audience can appreciate a good fight, and Marcus’ tactics were both tactical and shrewd.

None of that crosses Abby’s mind. Abby can only stare at him, stunned and amazed, and profoundly grateful to whatever hand of fate decided to hand her – hand _them_ – a second chance.

Marcus looks down at the man on the ground for a few seconds, his shoulders slumped, and her happiness is tainted by the knowledge that this will haunt him. That no part of him had wished to take a life today, and that Marcus Kane will likely have the same nightmares that haunt her. Then, tearing his gaze from his fallen opponent, he stares upward at Octavia for a long moment as if to say ‘ _is this what you really want?’_

Abby looks over at the young ruler, is surprised to notice a film of sweat coating her brow, all youthful color drained from her cheeks. For a fraction of a moment the light in the room hits her differently, casting a glow on the top of her head and the sides of her face, and every one of her seventeen years seems to double in the lines forming on her forehead. In that heartbeat of a second, Octavia Blake is no one’s _Heda_ : she is a scared girl cornered by a sacrificial system into a position of leadership, now trapped in a cage of her own making, unable to find the key. And she knows it.

Then, as if sensing he has had the impact he wished on the woman he cares for as his own daughter, Marcus stumbles and collapses to the ground.

“I need to get down there,” Abby says, deciding all decorum and tradition can go to hell. She runs toward Octavia and Indra, not intimidated in the slightest by her guards, who draw their weapons and bark orders at her as she approaches. “Get out of my way. He’ll die if I don’t stop the bleeding!”

“Come with me,” Octavia says, stepping off her throne. Out of the corner of her eye, Abby sees Indra holding a radio to her lips.

Octavia leads Abby down a dark, musty-smelling corridor lined with weapons, down several flights of stairs, through a red curtain and out into the arena. Abby doesn’t bother thanking her – pity and gratitude need not overlap, and given the events of the day, she has less than nothing to thank Octavia Blake for – and sprints the distance between the edge and the center of the space, where Marcus Kane lies crumpled on the ground.

His side is still leaking blood, and without thinking or any reasonable supply of bandages, Abby removes her shirt, exposing the black tank top she wears underneath. The shirt wouldn’t be her first choice as a method of preventing further blood loss, but it’s better than nothing. Marcus groans weakly as she presses down on the wound, opening his eyes. Though she knows these are the worst of possible circumstances, she can’t help feeling relief at the sound of his voice, at the warmth of his skin, at the undeniable proof that he is alive and she is alive. That she loves him and she always will, and that while they have things to work through, they can do that as they’ve done everything else since they’ve landed on the ground: together. Because if today proved anything to her confused, doubtful brain, it is that Marcus Kane is written into the rhythm of her heartbeat, and without his, hers would lose meaning.

She looks down at him and watches as his gaze focuses, a small, delirious smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

“Abby,” he murmurs. Then again, as if he needs to repeat her name to make sure that she is as real and concrete as the floor beneath his back: “Abby.”

He reaches up with his good hand – the hand with no broken fingers – and cups the side of her face, gently tracing the curve of her cheek, his smile widening.

“You’re here,” he whispers reverently, softly, as though he still can’t quite believe it.

Abby smiles, moves one of her hands to rest over his.

“Of course I’m here,” she says, leaning into his touch. “Where else would I be?”

***

She spends the night in Medical, never straying more than ten feet from his cot. Jackson tells Abby he found her asleep with one hand holding one of his, and another over his heart. While she has little memory of the frantic haze that was the previous day, she does remember that deliberate placement. One hand to reassure him that she was there, she was always there, and now, she always would be. One hand to reassure her that his heart was still beating, that he was alive, and that they were okay.

When he awakens ten hours later, with a bandage around his waist and medical tape on his broken fingers, Abby is by his side. He returns to the world of the living with a quiet, unintelligible murmur, and before his eyes open, Abby brushes a few strands of hair from his brow. His hair is getting longer, she thinks. She also thinks she likes it.

“Marcus,” she says, her voice soft, soothing. She doesn’t know what he remembers from yesterday – doesn’t even know if he remembers taking her hand, or if that moment has been lost to post-battle delirium – but she wants to believe the sentiment behind it remains, even if the memory doesn’t.

He opens his eyes slowly, and for the first time in three months, Abby feels something broken inside her click back into place. 

“Are you all right?” he asks, and she could almost laugh, because it’s such a Marcus thing to say. He’s been through trial by combat, nearly died, lost almost enough blood to require a transfusion, broken three of his fingers, and the first thing he asks when he wakes up is whether she’s all right.

“I’m getting there,” she says, and she smiles.

It’s the truth. She is not healed, not completely, of the scars and bruises that the previous months awarded her. But Marcus Kane’s presence is enough to quiet those insistent voices that once nearly drowned her in a barrage of self-doubt and loathing.

He returns her expression, and her chest aches. She had missed even the smallest things about him – the way the skin crinkles at the corners of his eyes when he smiles, the flecks of silver in his beard that are beginning to multiply, the strands of gray in his hair that mimic those forming in her own.

She remembers taking in all of those details in Polis, when it seemed they had all the time in the world. Down here, things are different – there is no sunlight creeping in through an open window, no fur-covered bed in which they can lay for hours and memorize every detail of each other’s bodies – but that is ground they have already traveled, and there is no need to move backwards. She does not have to learn how to love him again, because she never stopped.

The thing that truly takes her aback is the warmth in his gaze as he looks at her, and that still, even after everything she’s done, it is as radiant as ever. After exchanging nothing more than a few words with him since the bombastic, explosive argument she’d worried had blown their relationship to bits, he still regards her with the same reverence as he did when they walked on the Earth’s surface, instead of beneath it.

Though she questioned whether she was still the woman he fell in love with, he never has.

“I never wanted to hurt you,” he says, his voice soft. He’s said it before, but this is the first time she’s truly listening, understanding. Because she felt the same way staring down at him in the arena, terrified he was going to make a martyr of himself to prove a point to Octavia Blake. Whether his reasons for keeping her alive were selfish or selfless, she will never truly know. But now, staring down at him, she can finally say – without reservation or hesitation – that even though it caused her pain and will continue to do so, she is glad he made the choice he did.

“I know,” she says as she runs her thumb over his knuckles, reassuring him through both touch and words. “I didn’t want to hurt you, either. I was just…I was tired, Marcus. I was tired of fighting. I was angry. But I -“

She stops, takes a deep breath. All the things she couldn’t bring herself to say to him are rising inside her throat, dancing on her tongue, and now, faced with finally freeing them, her emotions are raw.

“I loved you,” she whispers, her voice hoarse. “I still do.”

Marcus freezes for a moment as her words wash over him. Finding there’s nothing more she can really say, that in six words, Abby has summed up a great deal of what made her so miserable about pulling away from him – she stands up to give herself something to do. To occupy her brain while she waits for his response. She doesn’t have long to wait.

Rather than saying anything Marcus opts to attempt to sit up, wincing as the wound in his side complicates the motion. Abby helps guide him – gently – into a seated position with his legs to the side, facing her.

Then, without another word, he pulls her into his arms.

He holds her tightly, with every ounce of strength in his battle-bruised body. And Abby does the same, lightly running her fingers up and down his back, brushing her lips against the curve of skin where his neck meets his collarbone. She had never forgotten how it felt to be held by Marcus Kane, never erased the comfort and clarity that came with being close enough to him to feel their heartbeats synchronize. But memory was washed out, its colors muted, as compared to the vividness of the actual experience. She thinks as she stands there, warm and content, that she could stay like this forever. She could spend years like this, wrapped in his arms. Something that had broken inside her begins to repair itself, and she finds, in his embrace, another piece of the woman she once was. The woman she desperately wants to believe she still is.

When she finally, reluctantly, leans away, Marcus looks at her the same way he did on the arena floor; hopeful, adoring, and most of all, _happy_.

“I love you, too,” he whispers, his smile wobbly. There is a question in his eyes, one she knows he won’t let himself answer for fear he might be wrong.

So she does it for him.

She leans in and presses her lips to his, gentle, slow, savoring, feeling the puzzle pieces of memory and reality clicking together. Even though she hasn’t done this for months, her body remembers how he likes to be kissed, how to make him shiver, how to draw a low groan from somewhere deep inside him.

She leans away, just for a heartbeat, allowing Marcus closes the gap between them again. Jackson could show up at any moment, and Marcus is injured, so she makes every effort to keep things chaste. But she can still taste the promise of tomorrow on lips, the promise of a future that holds hope even in the despair of the bunker, the promise of bright days to come even with storms ahead.

“We’re gonna be okay,” she murmurs as she rests her forehead against his, reminded of a time long ago when things seemed equally bleak.

But despite it all, she knows as long as she has Marcus Kane at her side, no matter how dark the night becomes, she will always be able to find the sun.


End file.
